"Not perhaps for myself, but I happen to know that your means have supported not only your own family but my family as well."
"Larry,"—Colonel Wallifarro spoke in a harder tone than was customary with him—"your folly has been almost criminal ... but if it meant stripping myself to beggary I couldn't see Anne's father accused of a breach of trust. Even if I cared nothing for you, my boy, it would come to the same thing. I fancy I shall sell the farm."
"My God!" groaned Masters. "It's the apple of your eye, Tom."
Colonel Wallifarro fumbled for a cigar and lighted it, saying nothing for a time. When he spoke it was with an irrelevant change of topic.
"Not quite, Larry. The apple of my eye is a dream. If, before I die, I can trot a grandchild on my knee—a child with Morgan's will and Anne's fine-fibred sweetness—" he paused a moment and then gave a short laugh—"then I could contentedly strike my tent for the beyond."
"I'm afraid her heart—"
Colonel Wallifarro raised a hand in interruption.
"I know, Larry. Don't misunderstand me. It would have to be along the way of her happiness or not at all. I feel almost a paternal interest in Boone Wellver. But I've always believed that they'd grow apart with the years and she and Morgan would grow together. Anyhow it's my dream, and for a time yet I sha'n't let go my hold upon it." His tone changed and again he spoke as a lawyer weighing the inelastic force of facts. "But time is vital to you. These options must be taken up. There must be no suspicious delay. I'll catch the next train back to town and arrange to get money in your hands at once."